


build it better (the second time around)

by finkpishnets



Category: The Order (TV 2019)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Polyamorous Pack, Post-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25131544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finkpishnets/pseuds/finkpishnets
Summary: Friendship’s a long-shot he doesn’t have the luxury to make time for, but maybe just for tonight neither of them have to be so fucking lonely.[Or: The Knights take the long road back to each other.]
Relationships: Lilith Bathory/Randall Carpio/Hamish Duke/Jack Morton
Comments: 11
Kudos: 121





	build it better (the second time around)

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this before season two, where it was obviously completely jossed. then i decided, what the hell, i'll finish it anyway. so, have yet another fic about the knights finding each other after the season one finale, with added angst. 
> 
> obviously not season two compliant (although since i wrote a lot of it having seen season two, some of that has definitely seeped in).
> 
> can you believe i just wanted a chance to drag jack's blond hair? and then i ended up _really liking it?_. it's ok, i don't know myself either.

**~**

The bulb blows as soon as he gets home. It’s not a big deal; the sun isn’t totally set yet, and the closet at the end of the hall keeps a stock of necessities so the landlord doesn’t have to do anything as plebeian as check on his tenants.

Still.

It’s just one more shitty thing in a string of shitty things.

It takes him twenty minutes to fix, the only ladder in the building somehow having migrated to the very corner of the basement, leaving Jack with a stubbed toe and probably about five different mould related diseases. By the time it’s done he’s beyond productivity, throwing himself on the threadbare couch he’d picked up at an estate sale for a precious fifty bucks, and shifting about until he can nap without getting pierced by wayward springs.

Outside, the night’s begun. Laughter muddled with curses and the ever present rumble of traffic, and Jack manages to snatch a disjointed half hour of rest before he’s up again, downing crappy instant coffee that sticks to his insides and changing into his second uniform of the day. In a lot of ways he prefers the factory job; the guys are alright and no one ever asks too many questions Jack doesn’t have the answers to. The coffee shop pays better, though, so he sucks it up and pins his name tag to his navy polo shirt, practising his smile as he locks up.

“Phil wants to see you later,” Madison says when he arrives, throwing his wallet and keys into a free cubby, and Jack’s heart sinks. “What’d you do?”

“Hell if I know,” he tells her, and takes the gum she holds out even though it’s firmly against the rules.

“Well shit,” she says, and yeah.

That sums Jack’s life up pretty well.

**~**

It’s not bad news.

Or, well.

That depends.

(“You work hard,” Phil says, his blonde hair flipped up in front with too much gel. “And Cathy’s transferring to Stanford, if you can believe it. You’ll have to be trained as a key holder, but we’d love to have you onboard full time!”

Jack can practically hear the exclamation point.

It’s exhausting.)

He almost wishes he’d been fired; it sucks that a job barely above minimum wage is his best bet, and he shoots off an email to the factory foreman apologizing for leaving them in the lurch even though they’ll have a replacement by midday tomorrow. 

He celebrates for what it’s worth with take-out, picking up cheap Chinese food from the place down the block and darting into the 7-Eleven on the corner to buy milk. There’s a queue, and Jack’s eyes wander away from the woman arguing with the cashier over two-for-one deals and focus on the stack of dye on offer, smiling women with glazed expressions and hair that’s definitely never come out of a box. He grabs one before he can think about it, and steps forward as the cashier finally calls a manager.

The dye burns his scalp, the sharp sting of ammonia clinging to the walls, and he presses his cheek against the tiny bathroom window to swallow down fresh air. 

It comes out yellow and he regrets it immediately.

Still, at least it’s his to regret.

**~**

Working the morning shift is a learning curve.

“It’s okay!” Pam says, her chirpy voice already grating at Jack’s skin. He’d barely grabbed four hours sleep, and the smell of coffee and pastries is making his stomach turn. “You’ll get the hang of it in no time!”

Jack wonders if all you have to do to become a manager here is talk in exclamation points.

“Thanks,” he mutters, and spends the rest of his shift actively avoiding her.

The first hour is too busy, a conveyor belt of business suits and shadow-eyed students, and Jack wipes down tables and pours lattes until his feet feel bruised and his cheeks hurt from the never-ending succession of “good morning”s and “what can I get you?”s. 

It slows down around mid-morning, and Jack darts out back for a smoke, frowning at his shaking fingers. The doctors had promised that would’ve stopped by now.

“You should try some toner on that hair,” Pam says when she leaves for her break. “It’ll perk it right up!”

“Uh,” Jack says, but she doesn’t seem to need a response so he just throws her a half-hearted wave and goes back to manning the counter.

He makes up some giant hot chocolates with all the trimmings for a pair of moms sat by the window, their kids laughing as they throw sugar packets at each other, and a no-nonsense Americano for a guy who looks like he hasn’t slept in a few days, answering a call with an expression of dread, muttering “Japan” as he adds a croissant to his order at the last second.

Other than that Jack’s pretty sure it’ll be dead until the lunch rush.

The bell above the door chimes as he’s restocking the paper take-out cups, and he calls out a “just a moment” to the preppy looking guy squinting at the menu board.

“Hi,” he says, wiping his hands down on his apron and just about managing a polite smile, “what can I get you?”

“Double espresso,” Preppy Guy says. “Or a Black Eye if you serve those.”

“Hell, why not just shoot the caffeine straight into your veins,” Jack says before he can stop himself, and the guy blinks in surprise. “Uh…”

Preppy Guy’s lips twist into a sardonic grin. “If that’s an option, I’ll take it. Otherwise an extra large cup’ll do fine.”

“Coming right up,” Jack says, feeling like an idiot. “Just, uh, take a seat wherever. I’ll bring it over.”

Jack watches out the corner of his eye as Preppy Guy takes a seat at the back of the room, as far away from the kids as he can, and pulls a laptop out of his leather satchel. Because of course he’s settling in for the long haul.

“Here,” Jack says, placing the coffee and a brownie on a free part of the table.

“I didn’t order that,” Preppy Guy says, and Jack shrugs.

“It’s on me. For, you know. Being a dick.”

Preppy Guy’s sardonic smile seems to be a feature, slipping back into place. “Well, thanks.”

“Cool,” Jack says and gives up on polite conversation in favor of hiding behind the counter until Pam gets back, sweeping in with an energy that exhausts Jack just to look at.

“Go take your lunch now,” she says, mixing up babychino’s for the kids who’re determined to turn the front of the shop into an apocalyptic war field whilst their mom’s entirely ignore them. Pam’s not even embarrassed to say ‘babychino’ aloud which is a superpower in Jack’s opinion. “Before it gets crazy.”

Jack bolts.

When he gets back an hour later, Preppy Guy’s gone.

**~**

“You’re home early,” Mona says, sticking her head out the door as Jack fumbles with his keys.

“Changed hours,” he says, and Mona hums. She’s nice enough even if she is in the habit of getting into everyone’s business. Frank downstairs thinks she’s a busybody destined to end up with twelve cats and a Knitting Monthly subscription; Jack won’t say but he’s eight-percent sure she sells drugs, and probably a few less savory things.

It’s none of his business though, and she takes in his mail if and when he gets any, so.

“A nine to five boy now, huh?”

Jack snorts. “Six to three, but close enough.”

Mona nods, taking in his wonky name badge and the coffee stain on his hem. “Make sure they give you all your state mandated breaks,” she says, and it almost sounds motherly. “And bring back some of those rocky road things some time.”

Jack throws her a salute and goes to see if he has anything in his fridge.

There’s half an onion and a squeezy bottle of mayonnaise, so he abandons hope and heats up some tinned soup instead. He’ll need to go grocery shopping soon, but his next paycheck is still two weeks away and rent’s due first.

Around nine there’s a commotion outside, a couple of frat kids from the college drunk and belligerent, fighting on the sidewalk, and Jack goes to help Frank break it up before it wakes Sally on the ground floor who’s nursing hours stretch her to the limit.

“Thanks,” Frank says when the two idiots have stumbled off, throwing curses from opposite sides of the street, far enough away to be someone else’s problem. “What the fuck d’you do to your hair?”

Jack runs a hand through it, feeling self-conscious. “Felt like a change.”

Frank snorts. “It’s a shit change.”

Jack flips him the bird and goes to sleep off his own misery.

**~**

Preppy Guy’s there again.

Jack’s taking a complicated order issued by a couple of teenage girls whose friends keep changing their minds and shouting across the room. Jack’s pretty sure they should all be in school, but he takes their money and keeps his mouth shut, eyes firmly on his work when they loudly start talking about how cute he is ‘even with that hair.’

“I mean,” Preppy Guy says when it’s his turn, “the hair _is_ pretty bad.”

“Thanks,” Jack says and stares pointedly at where Preppy Guy’s parting emphasises the beginnings of a receding hairline.

Preppy Guy’s eyebrows shoot up, and he sounds amused and only a little offended when he says “Touché.”

“Caffeine Overdose?” Jack asks, and Preppy Guy laughs.

“Please.”

The teenage girls are still watching him, though a few of them have noticed Preppy Guy by now, taking in his neat clothes and shiny shoes as he pulls his expensive laptop back out and starts frowning at whatever he’s working on. (Jack hopes it’s a terrible novel. He wonders if he can peek when Preppy Guy’s using the restroom.) The girls giggle and get chocolate cake crumbs on their crop tops.

It’s all stupid and pointless and _normal_ , and Jack’s not sure how to feel about that.

It’s not like he knows what normal even means.

**~**

He dreams of people without faces, of betrayal and loss and fear and darkness.

A car horn jolts him out of it, and he silently curses out the doctors who said this, too, would pass. He strips the bed of the sweat soaked sheets, dumping them in the corner to deal with later, and lays back down on the bare mattress, letting the cold, scratchy fabric anchor him.

He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t remember ever crying, which would be more of an achievement if he remembered much at all. He thinks losing everything, up to and including yourself, should probably warrant a few tears, but no dice.

Maybe he’s too tired.

Maybe he’s too sad.

Maybe he’s just not built to feel much at all. He doesn’t have any aspirations that he knows of, not unless making rent counts, and he doesn’t have friends. Not that he’s tried. It’s just…people. Sometimes he thinks he knows how to do it, how to smile and laugh and unbury shared interests, but then the exhaustion hits and he pulls back into himself. It’s easier that way.

 _Who am I?_ he thinks.

Jack Morton, they’d said, reading the name from the license in his back pocket, and he’d accepted it because it felt as true as anything else. No family, no other information. They’d put out a request to the local college just in case but apparently no one by that name had ever been enrolled there. _A townie_ , they’d said, but even _they_ hadn’t looked convinced.

He’d joined an online support group for a grand total of twenty minutes once. A girl who wrote sprawling purple prose talked about how she often daydreamed of lives she could have had, of places that could be home and people who could love her. Jack assumed that was normal, but when he tried he couldn’t picture anything. No fake pasts, no careless wishes, no long-lost family waiting in the wings. He’d deleted his account and gone back to staring at the walls.

_Who was I?_

He finally falls asleep. This time he doesn’t dream.

**~**

Jack only realizes it’s a holiday when his shift starts.

“Carl, you’re on table clear up.” Pam says. “Jack, you take the machine, and I’ll man the till. Tina, jump in wherever you’re needed.”

To give Pam credit, she runs a well-oiled machine. An hour later and Jack’s running on auto-pilot, stretching out his fingers to stop his hand from cramping, and wondering if he’ll ever get the smell of coffee out of his nostrils. 

“Americano for Hamish!” he calls, reading Pam’s perfect cursive on the side of the cup and wondering if it’s a fake name or if someone really didn’t want to have kids.

“Thanks,” the familiar voice says, and Jack’s eyes dart up to find Preppy Guy holding out his hand. “I panicked. I didn’t think the lady at the till would know what a Caffeine Overdose was.”

“Good bet,” Jack says, and studies his face, the slightly flushed cheeks and awkward hunch to his shoulders. The crowd seems to have surprised him as much as it did Jack. 

“Hamish, huh?” he says, as Tina passes him another handful of cups.

“Gotta love old money,” Hamish says, getting jostled by customers reaching for cardboard holders and cinnamon spice.

“Two caramel fraps and a green tea!” Pam calls, and Jack jolts back to reality.

“Sorry, I’ve gotta…” 

“Of course,” Hamish says. “I’ll just…”

Jack wonders if he’s able to find a table, but he’s too busy pouring syrups and heating milk to check.

**~**

It’s late by the time he heads home; he’d worked a double shift after one of the evening girls had called in sick and they’d struggled to find anyone to cover. Holiday weekends are, apparently, key overtime but that means little to the people who aren’t as reliant on their paycheck as he is. When Pam had taken the call, she’d looked over at him, biting her lip, but hadn’t asked because apparently she thought it was unfair or whatever. Jack might like her a bit for that. Still, money’s money, and he’s not gonna turn down double overtime even if it _does_ mean he’ll be sleepwalking through his shift tomorrow.

By the time he gets out, slinging his apron over his shoulder and forgetting to retie his shoelaces, the weather’s settled into a cool breeze, and the walk is pretty refreshing. 

At least, it is until he turns the corner to his block and finds a handful of people out front of his building, a gaggle of loud college kids running in the opposite direction.

“The fuck,” he says, pushing passed the nosy man from the shop across the street to find a guy in a sleeveless vest top and a bloody nose sat on the top step, Sally pressing tissue to his face and telling him to tip his head back. Jack takes another step forward, glare in place, before Sally waves him off.

“Stand down,” she says kindly, and Frank snorts. “He’s one of the good ones, I think.”

“Sure,” Jack says, raising an eyebrow.

“I would have gone with knight in shining armor personally,” the guy says, though it’s muffled beneath toilet paper. He grins in a way he probably means to be disarming but mostly just looks lopsided. 

Sally sighs. “A bunch of idiots started hassling me as I was looking for my keys,” she explains. “This guy was walking by and tried scaring them off.”

“With his face?” Jack asks, and the guy snorts, immediately regretting it.

“Ow, fuck. You should see the other dudes.”

Frank shrugs. “He’s not wrong about that. You’ve got a solid right hook, kid.”

The guy looks unnecessarily pleased.

“I’m late for my shift,” Sally says, reaching for her bag, “but I don’t want him left alone until the bleeding stops.”

Conveniently, Frank’s already several paces away.

“Uh,” Jack says, but Sally just smiles, patting him on the cheek.

The crowd disperses with her until it’s just Jack and the guy with the bloodied nose.

“‘Sup,” the guy says, waving awkwardly. “I’m Randall.”

Jack sighs. “Jack. Come on, let’s go.”

Jack fumbles with his keys, unused to having someone watching over his shoulder, and when he finally does get the door open he’s struck with the embarrassment of actually showing another human being how he lives.

To fresh eyes, the place is…cold. There’s dirty dishes in the sink and a pair of beat-up sneakers in the middle of the floor, but otherwise there’s little but the threadbare furniture and the shitty TV he paid fifty bucks he couldn’t spare for and only really works when the weather’s playing ball. In the other room the sheets are tangled at the end of the bed, and a pair of jeans thrown over the crapped-out radiator the super insists he’s gonna fix sometime.

“Sorry,” Jack says, before he remembers he doesn’t have a goddamn thing to apologize for.

“Huh?” Randall says, kicking his own sneakers off and sitting cautiously on the edge of the couch. Jack gets the impression he was planning to throw himself down before he remembered his nose, and stops feeling a little less weird. 

“Do you want a drink? I have water or shitty coffee?”

“Water, thanks,” Randall says, and watches Jack as he goes to wash a glass and fill it from the tap. “So,” he says when Jack hands it over, taking a long gulp and putting it on the floor when he realizes Jack’s table options are limited. “You a student?”

Jack knows his laugh sounds a little too bitter. “No, I’m a barista.”

“Cool,” Randall says, and the worst part is he sounds like he really means it. “I wondered why I hadn’t seen you around before. I RA the freshman dorms, so.”

“What are you studying?” Jack asks, and Randall rubs the pad of his thumb over his temple, like just the thought is enough to give him a headache.

“Pre-med,” he says.

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Oh, yeah,” Randall says, and _God_ , he’s so earnest. “I’ve wanted to be a doctor since I was, like, five. I dunno. I’ve fallen behind and I’m struggling to get caught up and it’s just a _lot_ , y’know?”

“Sure,” Jack says, even though he has no fucking idea. He does the same shit day in, day out, and the most his brain works is figuring out how to make rent and if he really added too many shots of hazelnut to some soccer mom’s mocha-latte. 

To be fair, the rent is a crushing fucking weight on its own, so he’s probably cashing himself short.

There’s a long moment of silence that Jack has no clue how to fill. This isn’t like work where he goes off a script, this is actual small talk, and he’s pretty sure he’s shit at it. Another bullet point to add to the list of discoveries about himself. 

“So if you live on campus,” he says eventually, when he can’t think of anything else, “what were you doing this side of town?”

Randall blinks and his shoulders seem to curve in on themselves, making him smaller than he is. “Can’t sleep,” he says, tugging at the tie on his hoodie. “I walk a lot. Just, wherever.”

It’s shockingly vulnerable, and Jack feels it like a punch to the chest. The loneliness filling the room right now probably breaks some kind of scientific record, and Jack doesn’t know Randall’s story, doesn’t know what makes his eyes sit lost even as his smile threatens to crack his cheeks, but he recognizes the stinging isolation behind it, and _God_.

It doesn’t make Jack feel better but it does make him feel a little less broken.

“Wanna order pizza?” he says, because he still hasn’t been grocery shopping but he does have a pocket full of tip money and a lost boy on his couch. Because he’s a lost boy, too. Because it’s late and he doesn’t want to remember how quiet it can get.

Randall’s eyes are a little too bright when he looks up, nodding hurriedly. “Sure,” he says. “Awesome! I’ll eat whatever.”

“Cool,” Jack says, and might even mean it.

**~**

They watch re-runs of some old game show, working their way through an enormous pizza Randall had insisted on covering more than half his share of because “I have a killer appetite, dude.”

It’s…nice.

 _Weird_ , but nice. Jack’s not delusional enough to think that one evening with a guy who’s only here because he needs a temporary babysitter makes them friends, but, well. 

It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Randall keeps up a running commentary, shouting out incorrect answers and making up stories about the contestants, and even when he’s not he’s shooting these quick glances at Jack he clearly thinks Jack doesn’t notice.

So, yeah. They could be friends, maybe, amidst Jack’s constant shift schedule and Randall’s high pressure classes and the fact that Jack has zero disposable income unless he wants to starve. Jack could wait and see if somehow, impossibly, they could actually find time in there to get to know each other.

Randall’s knee presses against Jack’s thigh as he shifts to get comfortable, and Jack can feel the heat through his jeans.

 _Or_.

Friendship’s a long-shot he doesn’t have the luxury to make time for, but maybe just for tonight neither of them have to be so fucking lonely.

“Hey,” he says, muting the commercials and wondering why he feels so nervous. Randall’s a stranger, some guy in the wrong place at the right time, and once he’s out the door Jack never has to see him again. It’s not exactly a risky shot.

Randall turns to face him, arm across the back of the couch and head tilted, waiting, but Jack’s stuck on the words, doesn’t know what he’s meant to say to get his point across. Maybe he doesn’t have to say anything at all, though, ‘cause Randall’s eyes turn dark, a flash of something Jack doesn’t recognize except a feeling in his own bones. 

“Hey,” Randall says, and, yeah. Yeah. Okay. That’s definitely enough. Jack’s knees slide between the cushions as he pushes up, leaning over Randall and taking his face between his hands, kissing him with a biting intensity he hadn’t known he was capable of. 

Randall kisses back, gripping Jack’s hips until he’s sure there’ll be bruises, pulling him closer until they’re pressed into the arm of the couch.

“Fuck,” Randall says. “We’re gonna break this thing. Bed?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jack says, and half pulls, half stumbles as he leads Randall into the next room, tugging off his shirt and tripping over his jeans as he goes. Randall’s eyes are a burning heat across his skin, drinking all of him in, and Jack may not remember a single goddamn thing but he can’t believe he’s ever been _wanted_ like this. Not with this desperate, all-consuming need. 

Randall’s own clothes end up piled at his feet, and Jack’s not new to attraction, to looking at random people on the street or in the coffee shop, Preppy Guy Hamish and Cathy at the convenience store ‘round the corner, and feeling that casual rush of want tempered down my societal politeness.

This isn’t so much a rush as a tidal wave.

“ _Please_ ,” he says, reaching for Randall, running his hands over his chest and following the path with his mouth. Randall groans, pushing him backwards until the bed creaks under them and a shocked laugh is punched out of Jack at the sound they make.

“What do you want?” Randall asks around a grin Jack has to kiss, and Jack doesn’t have a coherent answer, doesn’t know how to say _everything_ in a way big enough to encompass the lust thrumming through his veins and turning his blood to fire.

“You,” he says instead, even as he knows how fucking cliché it sounds.

Randall’s grin settles into something soft, and, _God_ , it’s got to be the hormones because Jack could swear there’s a little _awe_ there too, and he doesn’t deserve that, not even a bit. 

“Okay,” Randall says, and this time his kiss reads like every promise Jack can imagine.

**~**

Jack’s alarm goes off too early, and when he finally opens his eyes Randall’s not there.

**Author's Note:**

> next up: hamish.
> 
> come chat with me about this pack of disaster bis [on tumblr](https://madroxed.tumblr.com/) anytime!


End file.
